


la petite mort

by lairdofthelochs



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Also Alfie and Charlie together because I find this imagery cute ok?, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, brief scenes of domesticity, canon divergence: Ada wasn't captured at the end of S3, if you could call it that, set between post s3 and pre s4, written from Alfie's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 08:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12406371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lairdofthelochs/pseuds/lairdofthelochs
Summary: Alfie hasn't expected that late night phone call from Ada, telling him that Tommy's gravely unwell-- or that he's been asking for Alfie throughout his illness. Because why would he? Alfie's a gangster in Camden Town, not a friend, right? (Or how an impromptu late night visit will change the course of Tommy and Alfie's relationship forever)





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> Written from Alfie's POV, in Tom Hardy's Alfie voice. It's not my usual writing style, so apologies in advance if it turns out to be awkward.
> 
> ETA: I also forgot to say that this was technically an AU where Ada wasn't captured by the police at the end of S3, my bad. Woops.

Now, now.

Ain’t this a surprise?

Of all people, Alfie hasn’t expected Ada to be the one extending an invitation to the great residence of Thomas Shelby. But she’s sounded desperate on the phone— worried, even. As if the world’s going to end, if Alfie doesn’t intervene soon. It ain’t Alfie’s prerogative, right, to headbutt into a family squabble? Besides, the last time he heard, nearly every Shelby of Birmingham had been imprisoned, after the Russian debacle. Alfie knows it won’t be long before Tommy performs some kind of miracle and secure his family’s release. What kind of hole would Tommy dig this time, eh? 

Anyway, the last time they met in that warehouse had left Tommy’s face all bloodied from brain matter. Meanwhile, Alfie’s hurt his back from being tackled to the ground. Un- _fucking_ -justified. That had taken weeks to recover from, innit? Alfie couldn’t even roll out of bed without letting out a groan every morning.

Now, then. Why hadn’t Tommy personally picked up the phone himself to invite Alfie? He wonders why Tommy’s asked Ada, of all people, to do his bidding. Ain’t she the sister who didn’t want to get involved? The one who didn’t want to be a Shelby? So why has she rang him at quarter past midnight, pleading him to come to the Shelby mansion? Like it couldn’t wait?

And why _now?_ Why _tonight,_ of all nights?

This is a trap, innit?

Too many questions. Alfie’s head is beginning to hurt.

But it ain’t like Alfie to resist the offer, like an ant to a giant sugar cube – and Tommy Shelby _is_ like his giant sugar cube, innit? And Alfie is one very hungry ant. So Alfie reassures Ada – in the most gentlemanly way he could – that yes, he would come. But if she would only tell him what’s _really_ going on, that would be much more helpful, innit?

“It’s Tommy,” she says breathlessly on the phone.

“My dear—,” Alfie begins, “I’ve gathered that already. Everything’s about Tommy, innit?” he asks, raising one eyebrow, although no one could actually see that he’s doing it. As he speaks, he skims the newspaper headline from two days ago— the one about the Shelby family’s incarceration, about their court date, about the fall of the mighty Thomas Shelby. “So what’s this about Tommy, then?”

A second passes, then: “He’s asked for you.”

How curious, innit?

“And might I ask, sweetheart—,” Alfie carefully replies, “—why he’s asked _you_ to ask for _me_? Surely he could pick up the phone himself, like he’s always done? He’s a big boy, ain’t he?”

“He’s...indisposed, Mr Solomons.” There is an uncomfortable pause, before Ada resumes tactfully. “He’s been asking for you. We thought it would cease after the first time, but he’s not getting any better—and now he’s _still_ asking for you.”

 _Getting any better?_ Is the man unwell? Alfie’s heard rumours about Tommy’s deal with the Russians, how it ended – and he ain’t sure if they’d decided to do Tommy in after what had happened. Alfie’s never trusted _whatserface,_ that Russian woman, Petrovna or what have you. But whatever’s happened, Ada’s made it sound like Tommy wouldn’t make it.

Nah, this ain’t right, mate. Alfie’s got to make sure that he understands this clearly, that he and Ada are on the same page? So he asks Ada, all frank and gauchely— “Tommy’s not _dying,_ is he?”

There’s another pause. The line crackles, like Ada’s moving the receiver about, hesitant to answer— before she finally whispers, “We hope not. But…”

But.

_But._

That confirms it. Tommy’s dying, alright.

Now Alfie’s beginning to lose his patience, yeah? He never really cares for etiquette, even when speaking to a lady. Had this been anyone but a Shelby, he probably would have screamed at Ada down the phone. But—

_But._

This sounds like a delicate matter, innit? Especially when Tommy’s life is on the line? “Listen, _sweetie—_ ,” Alfie begins slowly, gritting his teeth to keep himself from snarling, “Have you called for a doctor?”

“We have, but—the medicines, it’s not helping.” Ada sounds like she’s about to cry. Alfie couldn’t stand it when women cry— it reminds him of his mom, or his sister, yeah? When they were being chased by dogs? Not a pleasant memory, innit? It’s so much better if he doesn’t know anything about it. Ignorance is bliss, and all that? Why do you think Alfie’s burrowed himself in his bakery all day long, surrounded by work?

_Work._

That’s all this is about, innit? Why he cares so much about whether Tommy lives or dies? They have a special work relationship, _work_ being the operative word. It would be a shame, innit, now that he’s known Tommy Shelby so well— can’t let him die without one last fight, yeah? Who would Alfie spar with? Sabini? The man’s got too much flair so predictable that it bores Alfie to death, yeah?

He likes Tommy because they’re complete opposites, and it makes Alfie’s life more interesting. Tommy cares too much about family and loyalty where Alfie has none. But he’s a sly fox, Tommy is, as if family and loyalty ain’t a weakness when it could have easily been one. Clearly the gamble’s paid off, innit? Because why would Ada phone Alfie now if she ain’t loyal to Tommy? She’d said before that she didn’t want to be a Shelby, but she clearly still cared for her brother, innit?

Alfie sighs in defeat. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll fetch _my_ doctor. We’ll arrive in a few hours, yeah?” He could hear a loud gasp on the other end, but he ignores it. “Just— keep him alive until then, right? Otherwise you’ll find a very angry Jew at your doorstep. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Ada sounds surprised, as if she hasn’t expected that Alfie would make a move immediately.

“Sweetheart, you did wake me up from my beauty sleep, yeah? If this couldn’t wait, you wouldn’t have phoned me at this hour,” he grunts, sounding grumpier than he’s intended. With the rest of her family in jail, Ada probably doesn’t know where to turn for help. She’s made it sound like Tommy is gravely ill. Maybe she’s exaggerating, yeah? Or maybe Tommy is really dying.

Too many maybes, but Alfie doesn’t want to tempt fate.

Not when it involves Tommy Shelby.

That would be fucking silly, innit?

 

* * *

 

Ada looks pale, like she hasn’t seen sunlight in weeks – and she nearly smile-cries at the sight of Alfie – now that’s a novelty, innit? As if she’s seen some kind of saviour, some kind of guardian angel or rather. No one’s looked at him like that before. It’s giving him the heebie-jeebies, yeah?

So the good news, according to Ada, is that Tommy’s still alive.

The bad news is, well—Tommy’s _still_ dying.

Frowning, Alfie pushes past Mary and Ada, determinedly heading upstairs to see for himself. He enters the room with the revered Dr McDonald, a Scottish surgeon at St Tommy’s who graduated from Edinburgh— and finds Tommy propped up against the headboard of his bed. He looks fucking awful, spluttering wet coughs of phlegm that he couldn’t quite clear out from his lungs. And to think that he’s survived a good battering from Sabini, to think of how many people who had wanted to kill him but failed miserably. It’d be a shame if Tommy’d died from some fucking flu, innit? Alfie watches on as the good doctor pokes and prods at Tommy, listening to his chest and checks his pulse, before concluding that Tommy has pneumonia.

“This ain’t like them Spanish flu things, is it?” Alfie asks the doctor once he’s done, maintaining a low voice, just out of Tommy’s earshot. “My cousin died from Spanish flu. It ain’t pretty,” Alfie says, for the sake of speaking, to relieve the tension brewing in his own gut. The doctor shakes his head, but says that it’s still fatal if untreated early. He insists on using a new serum which had been developed in America only a year before— one that Alfie had never even heard of, but he trusts the doctor, yeah? He’s paid good money for this, and he’d made it clear to Dr McDonald that if he dares to swindle Alfie into using quack therapy, he’d answer for it—with his life.

“Alfie—,” Tommy whispers in his feverish dream, when he finally realizes that Alfie has been standing behind the doctor all this time.

His head snaps up at the sound of his name being called. “’Ello, Tommy,” Alfie says, before skulking his way closer to Tommy’s bedside. Clutching the silver top of his cane, he asks, “How’re you feeling?”

“Never better, Alfie,” Tommy attempts to smile. “You’re here,” he says feebly.

“I am, ain’t I?”

He’s tried not to be surprised when Tommy calls out his name, and Alfie has no excuse for being the one who reaches for Tommy’s hand first, yeah? A friendly pat, that’s all. But Tommy’s cold, sweaty hands – they clutch Alfie’s hands tighter—and for a dying man, he’s still got a strong grip, Tommy has. “I’m not dreaming, am I?” Tommy asks, lips chapped from dehydration. He’s sweating buckets.

“No, you’re not dreaming, mate. I’m ‘ere, yeah?”

“Hmm,” Tommy replies, head lolling back into the pillow. He’s delirious. Better leave him alone, eh? In fact, that’s what Alfie would have done, if Tommy hadn’t asked a fucking silly question.

“Look after Charlie, will you?”

Now, hold on a second. Fuckin’ ell, mate. Tommy could have asked his aunt Polly, or his brother Arthur, or John – but they ain’t here. Well. Tommy’d put them in jail, didn’t he? How is he going to save them now, when he’s like this? No wonder Ada’s worried sick.

Alfie ain’t going to let Tommy die like this, it’s too pathetic innit? Right, so let’s say Tommy does die. Tommy could have asked that gypsy wife of John’s to look after Charlie. Or asked that prostitute secretary of his. Tommy could have asked Ada.

But no, he’s fucking asked Alfie.

“Promise me— you’ll look after Charlie, Alfie,” Tommy stubbornly insists, when Alfie continues to stare blankly at him. Stunned by Tommy’s fucking unreasonable request.

“Don’t,” Alfie warns sternly. “Don’t even fucking go there, mate.”  He tries to pull his hand away— out of horror, more than anything. 

“Stay,” Tommy says raspingly. “Please.”

Alfie’s breath catches in his throat. Tommy’s begged and borrowed before, multiple times, when he came to Alfie’s office in Camden Town. Alfie’s lost count, yeah?  All those times. But Tommy’s never said _please._

Never said please like his life depended on it.

Not like this, yeah?

The doctor keeps his gaze low. If he’s seen how Tommy has held on stubbornly to Alfie’s hand, he doesn’t say anything. “Don’t forget to wash your hands,” he merely advises, as he steps out of the room— leaving Alfie by Tommy’s side until Tommy falls asleep.

Alfie’s fat arse falls into the chair next to Tommy’s bedside with a loud thud. Tommy doesn’t move or talk for a long time, as if just content to have Alfie there by his side. He falls asleep briefly, but wakes up occasionally to the sounds of Tommy coughing. So Alfie helps Tommy sit up, rubbing circular patterns into his back as the poor man brings up green phlegm into the sick bowl.

This happens frequently throughout the night, this fucking endless cycle of sleeping and waking and helping Tommy clear out his lungs. Alfie’s back is going to be sore in the morning, innit? Even then, Alfie doesn’t budge from his role, like some fucking night nurse, although he could have easily left the room.

He can’t help but think of war and death, and he thinks that they could have died years ago, yeah? In a fucking battlefield in France, or killed by gang wars in this faithless homeland they call England. He doesn’t think highly of poets, but at this moment, one particularly stands out— some fancy-arsed bloke called Sassoon, or something. Alfie has this sudden urge to recite the lines out loud, to ask Tommy if he’s there, if purgatory really exists.

 _“Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say,_  
_Because I’d like to know that you’re all right._  
_Tell me, have you found everlasting day,_  
_Or been sucked in by everlasting night?”_

Tommy doesn’t respond to Alfie’s incoherent murmurings. He’s asleep, now, his breathing steady, his skin bathed in moonlight. He reminds Alfie of a child in the body of a man – or is it the fucking other way around? He could hear the wheeze in every breath Tommy takes, until a moment comes where the rise and fall of Tommy’s chest stills – and Alfie honestly thought that it’s the end, that’s Tommy gone now. But then Tommy would let out another wet cough, and Alfie could breathe easy again.

He’s burning up, so Alfie wets a towel and puts it on Tommy’s forehead. Gently, now.

Alfie doesn’t know why he does it, but he keeps his hand there, smoothing the hair that has fallen upon Tommy’s brows. Peaceful.

“Let’s see if you can fucking dig your way out of this one, mate,” he whispers. “I’ve given you the shovel. Now you’ve gotta fight, aintcha?”

 

* * *

 

Alfie runs his business from Shelby’s place the next morning. Ollie could handle it, even if he’s prone to panic attacks, poor boy. He couldn’t well bloody leave now, could he? Not when he’s sacrificed his back and a good night’s sleep for a fucking Brummie geezer.

To show his irritation, he grunts at every maid who tried to serve him breakfast, and frowns at every little dainty porcelain teacups they’ve pushed towards him on the dining table. Wedgwood. Of course, right? Why wouldn’t Tommy use Wedgwood, the fancy bugger? He is aware that Ada is peering at him through the newspaper broadsheets, intently watching the rings on his fingers, the beads around his neck.

“You’ll be glad to know that he’s looking much better this morning,” she says, attempting casual conversation, as Alfie chomps through his toast. “Your presence did him much good.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” Ada says, before folding the newspaper and setting it in front of her, leaning forward purposefully. “Thank you for coming. It makes a lot of difference—,” she’s started to say, before Alfie cuts her off with another grunt. He doesn’t want to know, yeah? Whatever she’s about to say, Alfie doesn’t _need_ to know.

“He thought you were an apparition, apparently,” she persists. “I told him that you did come. That it was you, that you were there last night.”

“Right,” Alfie hums noncommittally.

“I wonder—,” she begins, “—if you would want to see how Tommy’s doing today?”

Another awkward silence befalls the table, before Alfie stands up abruptly. “I think—,” he says curtly, “—if he’s doing better, then I should get going, innit? My job is done, yeah?” Alfie asks fearsomely, before reaching for his cane. “I’m a very busy man, Miss Shelby. Please and thank you,” he stresses, before hissing at the sudden pain he’s felt in his back.

Ada narrows her eyes sharply. “It’s Mrs Thorne,” she corrects him.

“My sincerest apologies,” Alfie replies, although his heart isn’t really in it, and makes a move to leave rather noisily— with the sound of his chair scratching against the tiles, his cane clacking against the marble floor, china clinking on the table. “Mrs Thorne,” he says pointedly, tipping his hat at Ada.

He’s only made about three steps away from the chair when Mary comes in with a little boy. Alfie pauses in his ungainly stride, blinking curiously at the tiny bundle in Mary’s arms. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Ada replies, as if she’s been reading Alfie’s mind. “That’s _him._ ”

“Ah. Um,” Alfie clears his throat. So that’s the creature that has caused so much grief to Tommy. “‘Ello, Charlie!” he gives a tiny wave of his hand and attempts to smile, although it may have come off more as an angry snarl than a happy face, really.

But look, Charlie laughs!

“I think Charlie likes you, Mr Solomons,” Ada quips, covering her mouth with one hand as if she’s stifling a laugh, too. What’s with the Shelbys and being unapologetically candid about their amusement, at Alfie’s expense?

Strangely enough, Alfie didn’t take offense at all.

Now, now.

Ain’t this a surprise?

 

* * *

 

A week later, Tommy turns up at Camden Town unannounced, like he owns the joint. He’s dressed in a sharp suit, as sharp as the razor in his cap, as sharp as the look in his eyes. Nice to see him all vertical, though. And talking sense. Instead of lying horizontally in a coffin somewhere, mute and dumb and dead. What a relief, eh?

As if the sooty skies of London ain’t enough to cause more damage to his lungs, Tommy’s got a cigarette dangling between his lips. “Are you sure you should be smoking, Tommy-boy?” Alfie asks, not quite indiscreetly. “After you wrecked your lungs with pneumonia?”

Tommy merely shrugs as he trails behind Alfie, hands stuffed in his pockets. “It’s my body, I do what I want with it.”

Alfie claps his hands and rubs them together, before welcoming Tommy into his bakery. He’s too nonchalant, Tommy is. As if he’d never fought for his life only a week ago. It’s doing Alfie’s head in, but he ain’t about to show this to Tommy, eh? No, so he shrugs his shoulders instead. “Fair point,” he declares, before walking up the corridor to his office with Tommy by his side.  

Just like old times.

“I heard what you did for me,” Tommy says, sauntering gracefully through the dank space while Alfie marches on with his bow-legged walk. “With the doctor?”

“You’re a strong lad, aintcha?” Alfie asks as he holds up the door to his office, waiting for Tommy to come through. Alfie could smell the faintest scent of aftershave— the same smell in Tommy’s bedroom, the same smell in Tommy’s office. “You would’ve recovered even without my intervention, yeah? It was that Scottish doctor who saved your life with that fancy serum, innit?” Alfie knits his brows together, and motions Tommy to pull up a chair. The last time he was here, he’d threatened to blow this place into smithereens. So Alfie kindly asks, “What _are_ you doing here?”

“I’m a wandering gypsy,” Tommy replies, reminiscent of Alfie’s description of himself— _the wandering Jew_ —when he visited Tommy’s mansion.

“Just passing?”

“Just passing,” Tommy agrees too quickly. “But now I’m here, I thought, I might just get the good doctor’s details,” he supplies— a reasonable enough request, given what’s happened. “In case anything happens next time,” he adds dispassionately. Ice-blue eyes staring coolly into Alfie’s grey ones.

“Right,” Alfie replies, rubbing his beard as he continues to frown at Tommy. “You could have just written, you know? I could have written back,” he counters.

“It might come out wrong,” Tommy retorts drily. “Better to do it face to face. Less mistakes.”

“Huh,” Alfie grunts, before scratching the back of his head. He ponders Tommy’s reply for a second, before reaching out for pen and paper, writing the full details of a certain _Dr Alistair McDonald, MD, at St Thomas’s Hospital,_ in an inelegant scrawl.

He hands the paper gawkily to Tommy, their thumbs brushing against each other’s. Alfie half-expects Tommy to stand up and leave, but he persists on extending this unexpected meeting with his languorous demeanour. Another drag of his cigarette, another blow of its smoke through those inconsiderately puckered lips. “This is the same doctor who advised you not to drink, I take it?” Tommy asks.

Alfie leans back on his chair and crosses his arms, attempting to mimic Tommy’s relaxed stance. He couldn’t do it. “The one and the same,” he nods instead. “No nonsense kind of fellow, this Dr McDonald is. Not that I feel any better. My skin’s flarin’ up again but there’s nothin’ he could do, is there?” Alfie asks rhetorically, flailing his hands about his face, accentuating the scaly bits that are peeling off his skin.

“It looks fine to me, Alfie,” Tommy reassures him in that familiar, lazy Brummie drawl.

One does wonder when Mr Solomons became Alfie. And how natural Tommy’s made it sound, like Alfie’s never been a Mr Solomons to Tommy at all, like it’s the right thing to do. As if the transition from Mr Solomons to Alfie is something akin to _friendship._ The same way Alfie could not call Sabini ‘Darby’, because it ain’t right.

“I’m glad you’re better though, Tommy,” Alfie says. Because today’s the time for truths, innit? And ain’t _that_ the truth?

“Thanks, _Alfie,_ ” Tommy says, not quite meeting his eyes. Is that a blush he sees in Tommy’s cheeks? Or maybe it’s just the remnant flushes from the fever he’s had. It’s hard to tell, innit, in this half-lit office. “And thank you for the – uh, gifts,” Tommy adds, his voice cracking. “The toys for Charlie.”

“Yes,” Alfie nods emphatically. “He’s a beautiful boy, ain’t he? Strong and healthy—,” he says, “—just like his father, eh?” What he’s really wanted to say was _‘Sorry I got your kid abducted,’_ but the words have failed to come, so this would have to do, yeah?

Tommy continues staring at him as if he’s trying to read Alfie like the Torah, all written in fucking Hebrew. It’s fucking unnerving, yeah? So Alfie lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’s held until Tommy says, “I better go.”

“You’re a busy boy, aintcha, Tommy?” Alfie asks, pursing his lips tightly— in a grim line. After today, their relationship will be back to normal. To one that is undefined, uncategorized; inscrutable. Alfie will miss _this,_ whatever this fucking nonsense is.

“Indeed I am,” Tommy affirms, almost melancholic in his tone. “And you too, Alfie,” Tommy stubs his cigarette in the ashtray. Alfie blinks. Doesn’t even look up when Tommy stands up from his chair, the creak of wood against cement causing an ugly shriek against Alfie’s ears. He continues to stare at the embers and the smoke, until Tommy speaks again. “You could, you know, call again.”

“Eh?” Alfie asks, not quite understanding.

“To see Charlie,” Tommy explains. There is that knowing upward curve of his lips again; a half-smile, as if he’s teasing Alfie’s obliviousness.

“Yes, I could, couldn’t I?” Alfie replies. Seeing Charlie’s always a good thing, innit?

Tommy’s smile widens. A genuine, unadulterated smile. Fuck.

Alfie’s breath catches in his throat. Tommy’s been here before, in that same seat, multiple times. Alfie’s lost count, yeah?  All those times. But Tommy’s never smiled. 

Never smiled like _that,_ not even when they agreed on that fucking deal and shook hands with spit between their palms. 

Not like this, yeah?

Like Alfie’s made him really happy?

It ain’t until later that Alfie realizes Tommy hasn’t picked up the doctor’s details— still lying there, all forgotten, next to the ashtray and Tommy’s cigarette stub.

Fucking hell.

 

* * *

 

The next time he’s up at the Shelby mansion, the man’s not at home. The rest of the family has been freed from prison, just like Alfie knew would happen. Strangely enough, Mary trusts him to play with Charlie while Tommy’s away. Mary’s still there, watching Alfie’s every move like a hawk. Since the abduction, security has increased tenfold. Alfie’s arrived with his hands up in the air, saying, _I’m not going to harm him._ Because why would he? Not after last time. But these people don’t know him, do they? No, they just think of him as a fucking conniving, menacing Jew.

Fair enough.

Now Alfie’s thinking about his own mother and how she would have liked it if he had a son. How Alfie would have acted if he did have a son.  Just imagining it used to be a fucking no-no, because honestly, Alfie’s a busy man. He didn’t have time for this fucking shite. But now, he’s thinking about what he’s missed out on, as he watches Charlie play with the toy horse that he’d brought.  Just like his father. Always has a thing for horses.

Charlie’s managed to say his name, or what he thought was his name. Fine, he called him Fifi. Close enough. But they sit there together, in Charlie’s nursery, with Mary sitting in one corner of the room as they play with toy cars and planes and teddy bears. Charlie starts to hold up the furry little thing, this unnamed teddy bear, and compares it to Alfie. ‘Alfie,’ he says, as if he’s proud of himself. Right, so Charlie’s named the teddy bear after him. Just fucking convenient, innit?

He grabs a Crayola in his tiny little hands and starts doodling stick-people on pieces of paper, when Alfie realizes what it is that Charlie’s attempting to draw.

A family.

There’s Charlie, then there’s Tommy. Arthur, Ada, Polly, John, Michael.

Mary.

And then, there’s a bearded figure in black, bigger than all the others, with bear-like ears and a downturned mouth. Oh, it so fucking obvious who that is, innit? Now Charlie’s just taking the mickey out of him.

“You made me look much more better looking than I am in real life, kid,” Alfie mutters, as he inspects the finished product. “And your dad is a better looking man than that.”

“Did I just hear you praising me, Mr Solomons?”

Alfie freezes at the familiar baritone voice, knowing who it is even before he turns to face its owner. Charlie, the treacherous child, merely coos affectionately at the slender figure standing at the doorframe. “Daddy!”

Alfie steps back as Tommy leans down to pick up his son, watching them interact like a forgotten third wheel. Tommy studies the family portrait that Charlie’s completed, before commenting, “Well, looks like you’re part of the family now, aren’t you, Mr Solomons?”

Back to Mr Solomons again now, are we? The fucking irony.

He’s about to come up with a clever retort before Tommy tilts his head, gesturing Alfie to follow him. “Let’s take a walk,” he says. “We can take Charlie with us. Mary won’t mind, would you, Mary?” he asks.

Mary replies by staring daggers at Alfie. “No, sir.”

And this was how Alfie finds himself waking side by side with Tommy, who is pushing the pram around his mansion’s compound. The air is too clear, unlike London, where he feels more at home. Alfie feels slightly dizzy, now, with the fucking tranquillity of it all. “Is it usually this quiet in yer ‘ousehold, mate?” he asks.

“Just today,” Tommy replies. Alfie stares at the younger man, at the lines on his face. He looks healthier, more alive. He looks older, too, like he’s been through a lot in just a few weeks. Alfie realizes that he’s never really seen Tommy’s face in the full sunshine, nice and bright, just like this. Never seen the wind blow across his face, seen his hair dance to the gentle breeze. When they meet, it’s always been in his darkened office, or in the light of his bedroom, or in that stuffy warehouse – when Tommy’s face was all covered in blood. He’s never seen Tommy look so free.

“Just today?” Alfie asks. “Why might that be?”

Tommy pauses—as if he’s considering his next answer carefully. “Because you’re here,” he says afterwards. “They’re all afraid of you, Mr Solomons. Because they can’t predict what you’re going to say or do next.”

Now, now.

Ain’t this a surprise?

The silence is broken by a question that Alfie hasn’t even realized Tommy’s asked.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, I didn’t expect your visit today,” Tommy repeats calmly, keeping a steady gaze towards Alfie. 

“Well, I’m just passing, innit?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, and pauses in his step. “Sure you are, Mr Solomons.”

“You said I could call,” Alfie insists. “To see Charlie, innit? And—,” he puts up a finger for emphasis, “—I’ve left a shawl for Ada, from Brick Lane. A new special brew for Arthur and the rest of them Shelbys, to congratulate them for being freed from prison. Also—,” he rummages through his pockets, “—here’s the doctor’s details. You left it on the table the last time you came to Camden Town, you silly boy,” Alfie says, before handing the rumpled piece of paper into Tommy’s outstretched palm.

“Right,” Tommy replies, blinking rapidly at the paper in his fist, as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. “You could have just posted it to me,” he counters.

“It might have gotten lost in the post, innit?” Alfie retorts. “Better to give it to you face to face. Less mistakes, yeah?” he tells Tommy, repeating similar words Tommy’s said to him, weeks ago. When Tommy fails to come up with a reply, Alfie glances at his pocket-watch and declares exultantly, “Look at the time, eh? I should leave now, innit?”

He doesn’t miss the little shake of the head that Tommy does, as if he doesn’t want Alfie to fucking leave. Not yet. But if Tommy doesn’t say it, Alfie’s not going to fucking stay. Tommy picks up Charlie from the pram, and Charlie looks at Alfie, as if wanting Alfie to carry him around instead of Tommy. “No can do, Charlie-boy,” Alfie fake-pouts. “I’ve got arthritis. I might drop ya, and your daddy will be very, very angry with me.”

Oh, yes. Alfie’s seen what that anger can do. He’s tasted it first-hand, innit? In that fucking warehouse?

Charlie starts to cry, as if unhappy that Alfie’s rejected him. And then, he calls out for Alfie with a word that shocks Tommy and Alfie both.

“Mommy!”

Alfie shares a quick, alarmed glance with Tommy – who appears as stunned as Alfie is. “I think your son is a tad confused, Tommy-boyo.”

“That’s Alfie, not mommy, Charlie,” Tommy attempts to console the little boy, and thankfully his cries last for less than a minute, before he’s smiling again. “To be fair, he probably misses his mom,” Tommy reasons. “He also called Ada Daddy the other day. He gets mixed up with names, probably. It’s a miracle that he got your name right.”

Alfie pinches Charlie’s cheeks, which earns him a laugh, before he is reminded of something of rather great importance. “Speaking of which, send my regards to Ada, will you?”

Tommy looks at him oddly. “You’re not thinking of wooing her, are you?”

“No—,” Alfie frowns, taken aback by Tommy’s sudden enquiry. “What on earth makes you think—I’m trying to be nice, innit? Gentlemanly and all, just like you.”

A beat passes, then, Tommy unexpectedly lets out a hearty laughter. It’s a sound that Alfie’s never heard him made before – and it’s fucking beautiful.

“What are you laughing at, mate?” Alfie asks, because no one laughs at Alfie fucking Solomons and gets away with it, yeah? But Tommy’s unperturbed. He’s still fucking smiling when he says, “Stay.”

_Stay._

Alfie takes a sharp breath. He’s getting flashbacks, innit? Of that night, when Tommy’s asked him to stay? So he asks Tommy, “Stay for what?”

“Supper,” Tommy replies. Quieter, this time. As if he’s unsure what he’s really asking for, himself.

Tommy doesn’t say please.

Alfie waits for it, but it doesn’t come.

“Can’t fucking stay, Tommy. I’m a busy man,” he says, when it’s clear that Tommy ain’t asking twice. Firm in his resolve, steady and unchanging.

“Indeed you are, Alfie,” Tommy says. “Indeed you are.”

Alfie thinks he could see frustration in Tommy’s eyes, but he hasn’t got his glasses on, innit? So maybe he’s seeing it all wrong.

Maybe he can’t really see that far into the future, after all.

 

* * *

 

When the future comes, Alfie ain’t fucking prepared for it.

The future comes a month after, when Tommy turns up at his office in Camden Town, after he was patted down by an over-enthusiastic Ollie. Poor lad wasn’t keen to have the hand-grenade episode to recur, and Tommy has his full-on not-impressed mask on, although he cheers up considerably when Alfie turns up. 

Something looks fucking wrong, and it ain’t until Tommy’s sat down in front of him that he knows what it is.

Tommy’s fucking drunk.

And still, he’s asking Alfie to have another drink, as if he hasn’t had enough. “Let’s have some of the white stuff,” he proposes jubilantly. “It’s for the bosses, right? Or, better still, where’s your whiskey?”

Alfie narrows his eyes perceptively at this anomaly sitting in front of him, wondering what tricks Tommy Shelby has up his sleeve. How dare he turn up here looking all inebriated and vulnerable, as if he’s fucking asking Alfie to take advantage of him? “I don’t drink,” Alfie replies sternly.

Tommy leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “But I do.”

Well. How’s that for a fucking winning argument.  

Feeling resigned, Alfie pulls out the whiskey from his drawer and pours Tommy one. Then, he shouts for Ollie who’s standing outside the office, to bring him a pot of tea. “Make it doubly strong, yeah?”

Ollie comes in with the tea tray looking like he’s got his tail between his legs. After Alfie shouted at him for the hand grenade debacle, he’d never been the same, not when Tommy Shelby and Alfie Solomons are in the same room. Alfie motions him to leave them both alone, for a private conversation. “This is a man’s world, yeah? So shoo,” Alfie barks. “And shut the door behind you, don’t let anyone else in.”

“Yes, Alfie,” Ollie says. Maybe Alfie’s being too harsh on him. But one’s got to fucking learn, yeah?

The door clicks shut, and for extra effect, Ollie’s even helped him lock the door. Now, Alfie’s fate is truly in the hands of Tommy Shelby. He could pull a trigger to Alfie’s head now, no one’s going to be able to barge in and help. But instead of succumbing to Alfie’s fucking fatalistic fantasy, the real Tommy sitting in front of him is drinking shot after shot of whiskey— like a fucking machine, like he doesn’t care if he’s going to die tomorrow.

And that’s exactly what Alfie says to him.

“I’m already dead,” Tommy replies, staring blankly at the wall behind Alfie.

“I didn’t fucking save your life that night to see you do this to yourself now,” Alfie grumbles wearisomely, hiding his annoyance at what he’s witnessing. But Tommy ignores him. Instead, he says something ridiculous, like, “I was determined to find her, you know. When I lay there, dying.”

_Her._

Grace.

His wife.

Obviously.

Alfie lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Did you now?”

“I did,” Tommy says, now studying the intricate patterns of his empty whiskey glass, as if mesmerized by his distorted reflection and of Alfie’s, merging into one. “But she didn’t want me there. She said it’s not my time,” he mumbles.  

It’s unusual being the only one sober in a room. It’s unusual to be the sober one when confronted with a drunken Tommy Shelby. He’s about to pour another glass when Alfie grabs hold of the bottle first and puts it away. “I think you’ve got to stop, mate. You’re still alive, aintcha? So keep it that way, yeah?” Alfie says.

“Why?” Tommy asks belligerently.

Alfie rolls his eyes and groans. “This ain’t you—this whole thing, this ain’t you,” he says, as his hands windmills in front of Tommy’s face, trying to make a point. “You’ve nearly lost your ‘ead many times, yeah? What makes this time so different? You’ve lost Charlie’s mom, yeah, and I know you loved her.”

That finally gets him a reaction, because Tommy snaps at the mention of his wife. “You don’t know the first thing about her,” he stands up and points a finger at Alfie angrily, although he doesn’t shout. Not yet. That is yet to come. Let’s see how far Alfie can push this.

“I don’t, yeah?” Alfie shrugs, using the same tone he’d used when he pretended to admit that he knew about Charlie’s disappearance. “I fucking know that!”

Tommy shakes his head in disbelief, as if he knows something that Alfie doesn’t. “Why are you so fucking blind?”

Now it’s Alfie’s turn to feel utterly confused. “What are you fuckin on about, mate?”

“Why did you come that night?” Tommy asks, his voice raised—but not enough to cause any alarm to whomever that might be eavesdropping outside Alfie’s door. It’s a stupid question, innit? So Alfie’s going to give him a fucking stupid answer.

“Because your sister fucking phoned me in the middle of the night, yeah?”

Tommy grits his teeth, his jaw tightening as he’s evidently trying to control his temper, before he slams the table with one hand. Alfie jerks at the sudden movement, but he’s not fucking intimidated. “Yes—,” Tommy says, “—but why did you fucking _come?_ ”

Alfie stands up slowly, balancing his weight with his cane, so that they could now see eye-to-eye. And yes, now he fucking sees what Tommy’s been going on about. So he says, “I thought you were going to die, mate.”

“I didn’t need you,” Tommy spits acridly.

Alfie _tsked_ insouciantly. “It wasn’t what I heard. Ada said—,” he begins to say, before Tommy cuts him off halfway. “Ugh, Ada and her mouth.”

“Now, don’t slag off your sister like that,” Alfie frowns. “She cared about you, yeah?

“Sure she does,” Tommy sighs. “What did you hear?  What did I say to you?”

Is this a matter of pride? Or is it something else? “You didn’t say anything, mate,” Alfie lies. “I didn’t hear anything.”

If Tommy knows he’s lying, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he mounts his attack from a different front. “You didn’t have to come! Did you gloat at my enemies about how weak Tommy Shelby was, when you saw me lying there, all weak and frail and useless?”

So Tommy’s angry. This is like the warehouse again, except this time Alfie doesn’t know what Tommy’s really angry about. It’s fucking confusing, innit? “I came because I was worried about you, alright?” he shouts back. “I could have smothered your fucking face with the pillow, but I didn’t. Why did you have to ask _me_ to stay? Of all the fucking people in the world? You could have asked for your fucking dead wife, right? Or your family, who’s in jail? Why did you even fucking ask for _me?_

“They weren’t there, were they?” Tommy retorts heatedly, his face flushed from alcohol and rage and something else that Alfie recognizes but can’t quite name. “They weren’t there, but you were. And I wanted you there! I wanted _you!_ ”

Well.

Fucking hell, mate.

Tommy wants him. 

_Ain't this a surprise?_

They stand there like that, in silence, watching each other’s faces as mutual realization begins to sink in. Alfie’s entranced by the way Tommy’s chest rises and falls as he recovers from his breathless rant. He’s fucking beautiful, and it angers Alfie that it’s taken him this long to admit to it fully. _A thing of beauty is a joy forever,_ innit? And maybe this is why he’s so angry with himself – because Alfie Solomons doesn’t get fucking attached to things. Because once he does, it lasts forever. And it fucking scares him.

It scares him that he’s grown this fucking attached to Tommy Shelby.

“Alfie Solomons with nothing to say?” Tommy half-mocks him, although it ain’t out of jest. He looks defeated himself, Tommy does. “What has the world come to?” he asks nobody in particular, covering his face with his hands; one of them still holding the empty whiskey glass.

Alfie moves from behind the desk, before taking off the glass from Tommy’s hand. He puts it aside, on the table, with a dull thud. They’re standing as close as they had been in the warehouse— but this time they’re not fucking screaming at each other’s faces, and Tommy didn’t have brain matter splattered all over his fucking face.

“I am aware that I am not your wife. And I—,” Alfie says, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy’s voice is a broken whisper, his breath warm against Alfie’s skin. “What are you sorry for?”

“You know—no one’s ever—,” Alfie begins, but falters with his words, sounding like a total idiot. “And I—usually just take what I want, but never this, yeah? There’s no place for this, for people like us.”

“You’re too honourable,” Tommy replies. He’s too close. He’s too fucking close, and their noses are bumping against each other.

“I ain’t fuckin’ honourable, Tommy. I’m a fuckin’ coward. That’s what I am, yeah?”

Tommy closes the distance between them, placing their foreheads against each other. “I know that you care, Alfie,” he says, lifting one hand and places it at Alfie’s nape, the pads of his fingers against the short bristle of hair there. Alfie shudders. “You cared about your mom. That’s why you were so angry at Mr Romanov.”

The movement of Tommy’s fingers are soothing, as soothing as Tommy’s voice had been in the treasury. Tommy’s voice had held Alfie back from shoving sapphires down Romanov’s throat.

“I can see it,” Tommy says, now standing so close that Alfie could see each fine line of Tommy’s irises, and how dark his pupils are, how they’ve dilated in this dimmed light of his office. “I know you care about Charlie.”

“If you know so much,” Alfie growls, “—why are you fucking gloating to me about it?”

Even intoxicated, Tommy still makes a lot of fucking sense, which says a great deal about the man. It’s fucking annoying. And instead of replying to Alfie’s taunts, Tommy tiptoes and kisses Alfie hungrily like he means it, like he really wants this, with his hand still at Alfie’s nape, moving upwards and boldly threading his fingers in Alfie’s hair. Alfie lifts one hand and cups Tommy’s jaw to deepen the kiss, before switching positions and traps Tommy against the desk. There’s nothing graceful about the kiss, all tongues and teeth and spit, with Tommy’s legs around his thighs as he writhes underneath Alfie’s body. The groan that Tommy lets out sounds so obscene that Alfie’s got to push him away, to pull back and stare at this debauched, unearthly thing in front of him. Tommy, with his dishevelled hair and swollen lips, merely continues to gaze defiantly at Alfie.

Tommy brings Alfie’s right hand to his lips, and kisses the crown tattooed in the space between his thumb and forefinger. “I thought I was imagining things,” he says. “Alfie Solomons, reading Sassoon? That can’t be right.”

“No, it can’t be,” Alfie agrees, before letting Tommy bite into the flesh of his thumb, then sucking the teeth mark that he’s left there. Leaving kitten licks as he opens his mouth wider, smiling devilishly as Tommy sucks harder, making small noises that are supremely ungodly. He works earnestly, watching Alfie from underneath those ridiculous long, dark lashes. Alfie could feel his arousal building as he watches his thumb disappear and reappear in Tommy’s mouth. A double entendre for something else entirely.

“But then I asked Ada,” Tommy says, after he lets go of Alfie’s thumb, and tenderly caresses the hairs on Alfie’s face, at the scaly skin at his temple. No one’s dared to touch him like this before. Usually they’re too scared, or too disgusted. Not Tommy.

Never Tommy, right?

Alfie leans into the touch, and closes his eyes. “She’s got a big mouth,” he says, echoing what Tommy’s said earlier about Ada. A fucking joke. Tommy laughs. It’s fucking endearing. And the slight movement of Tommy’s laughter makes them realize how hard they both are, especially when pressed together like this, even if they’re still fully clothed.

“I want you, Alfie Solomons,” Tommy whispers.

“You should have fucking asked.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“That didn’t fucking count.”

“I’m asking _now._ ”

Alfie doesn’t know how to describe how he’s feeling, except that there’s a sense of relief, and maybe disbelief that this is actually fucking happening. So he says what he usually will say in this kind of situation – “Fuck me,” before Tommy lets out a low chuckle that does all sorts of ridiculous things to Alfie.

“No, Alfie. Fuck _me,_ ” Tommy says, _“—please,”_ and what should Alfie do but obey his request? He’s wanted to do this in a more comfortable place, like his bed, or Tommy’s bedroom – but neither he nor Tommy has enough patience, and they’ve waited long enough. Tommy’s nearly fucking died, and Alfie supposes, it’s fucking apt, innit, to do this here? In the place where they first met?

They’ve got their trousers and knickers off, but they’re keeping their shirts on. One day, Alfie promises himself, he’ll do this proper, because Tommy deserves better. But for now, this will have to do, innit? As he sits in his chair behind the desk, digging for rubber and lube from his drawer, Tommy begins to stifle a laugh into the crook of Alfie’s neck. Straddling Alfie’s lap, Tommy says, “Of all things I’d guessed you’d have in that drawer, I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Ain’t I glad I still have the element of surprise, Tommy Shelby?” Alfie replies light-heartedly, before he works Tommy open – first with one finger, then two – just long enough to tease him, to make him feel good, to prepare him for what’s coming. And when Tommy swears that he’s ready, he lifts himself up and positions himself above Alfie, before keening down slowly. Groaning at the delicious friction, feeling himself getting filled up by Alfie. He’s so fucking tight, Tommy is, and Tommy grabs hold of Alfie’s head, keeping their foreheads pressed together, gazing into each other’s eyes intensely. Tommy’s tongue flickers out and pressed against the ridges of his teeth, and Alfie leans forward to capture his lips just as their skin are flushed together, hip against hip.

“Hello, Tommy,” Alfie says when Tommy pulls away for breath, opening his eyes again. Alfie could see desire and happiness, and to think that it’s all because of him. It’s fucking incredible. “How are you feeling?” he asks shakily, his own voice unable to contain the feelings he’s having.

“Full,” Tommy says. “I’m full.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

Tommy nods, before he starts to move slowly, up and down, finding a rhythm that suits him and Alfie—making sure that it’s not too fast that it’s going to hurt him, or hurt Alfie. He grabs the sides of Tommy’s hips, as Tommy begins to chase his pleasure, while his cock is trapped between their clothed bodies. Tommy gasps when Alfie touches him, and begins to work on him at the same pace that he’s working himself, his little ‘ah-ah-ahs’ and the way his lips move to make the sound—Alfie’s fucked people before, yeah? But it never felt like this.

He wasn’t lying when he said he was a sodomite. He’s never been fucking proud of it, not until now. Not when he’s got a reason to be proud. Not when he’s with Tommy.

Their fingers clasp together tightly, Tommy’s nails digging into the meat of his calloused palm – while the edges of his rings must surely have been digging into the sides of Tommy’s fingers. It will hurt tomorrow. Just like _this_ will hurt tomorrow. Alfie doesn’t fucking care. So he kisses Tommy some more, and kisses him again as they come together, just split seconds between one another.

They call this _La Petite Mort,_ the little death. Alfie’s never really understood why they called it that, until now, with Tommy. In their line of work, death is like a friend, yeah? Tommy understands this as much as Alfie does, and Tommy’s literally been at death’s door only to be thrown back into the world of the living.

If he could share a few more little deaths with Tommy in the years to come, that would be enough before the big one comes, innit?

Yes, Alfie thinks.

That would be enough.

 

* * *

 

Death will come, but before that—

“Why did you ask me to look after Charlie?” Alfie will ask Tommy, one lovely morning. On a day when they are still alive, and well, and death is far away from their minds.

Tommy will reply, “That’s because he needs a dad. If I can’t be there for him—,” he’ll say, before Alfie interjects. “There’s Arthur. And Michael. And John. They’re father material, aren’t they?”

But then Tommy will say, “You’re the closest thing I could think of. You’re the only one smart enough to teach him the things he will need to know.”

Now.

Maybe it ain’t that big of a surprise, after all.

 --

 

.end

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this will be my last contribution to the Alfie/Tommy fandom before s4 starts. I don't want to hype myself too much as I'm a scaredy cat who's afraid that anything bad is going to happen to either of them, so I'll wait until s4 starts before writing (if ever) again!
> 
> The poem Alfie recited was part of Siegfried Sassoon's 'To Any Dead Officer', written during/about WW1.
> 
> ETA: This [gifset](http://isophhia.tumblr.com/post/166650341817) is exactly how I pictured Tommy in the 'drunk' scene. I'm in too deep, guys. Help.


End file.
